


Lovesick Rendezvous

by softlysoo



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Coffee Shops, Fluff, French Baekhyun, French Characters, M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, POV First Person, Paris (City), Post-Break Up, Romance, idk how to tag help, writer chanyeol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlysoo/pseuds/softlysoo
Summary: Chanyeol finally breaks his writer's block a few weeks after moving to Paris. However, first, he has to break his heart in exchange for his work.





	Lovesick Rendezvous

Over the months of my residence, the café on the corner street closest to my house became my second home. The workers knew me by name, calling it out with a thick accent every time my foot stepped in the door. 

Not that I was hard to recognize; a six-foot man with dark, shaggy hair and complementary black frames is typically hard to miss. The vivid red beret I often wore likely contributed to their recognition. 

They generally had my order made by the time I reached the counter. Iced Americano, the drink serving to represent my former country. I never enjoyed the sharp taste of pure, black coffee. It was more a reflection of myself, cold and bitter. 

Paris mornings were filled with friendly citizens and tourists bustling through the city. The early hours here seemed to put everyone in a trance. Today, I sat near the windows to observe the magic placed on the people passing by on the street. Light taps of glass on wooden tables and incoherent mutters provided an adequate aura for concentration. I logged a few notes for my study of them into my journal, stirring the absent sugar around my espresso in the process. 

My story is all too boring: wake up, get coffee, write, eat, think, sleep. Everything is the same each day, except for the food I eat and the thoughts I think. Meals alternate between instant noodles or bowls of cereal. Thoughts scatter in a million different ways that cannot be categorized. 

If you must know how I got here, I’ll tell you. Perhaps this will interest you more than my current mess of a life, but do not expect a masterpiece. This world is not as great as it seems. The city of love has broken my heart, froze it into ice, then threw it on the pavement and watched it shatter. Be prepared for the truth. Enjoy the lovesick tale of the boy who could never love himself. 

I originally came to France for inspiration. For years, I’ve been working on my debut novel. Countless drafts went to waste bins and nothing ever amounted to anything. In an effort to prove my ability to my family, I thought a change in atmosphere would give me what I needed to start. However, it was quite the opposite. 

Almost instantly, I fell in love with the country. The sweet mornings and the sparkling nights drew me to stay. In a whirlwind of emotions, I neglected my job for a month. September came, and my writing began to pick up. Not on its own, of course. It was a man who spurred my work. 

A man so breathtaking and elegant, I fell in deep. I’ve written millions of words in my lifetime, but none can perfectly describe this man. And it was frustrating, not being able to explain. His effortlessly confident gaze and demeanor coaxed me to follow him, despite my frustration. 

We first met in a club, the one place everyone goes to find long-term love. I had been documenting the experience in my journal. Partying was never really my forte, but I went to compare the party life from my current country to my home country. At this point, the only effort I had made towards my novel was considering Paris for the setting. While I was in the middle of a sentence, the man pushed himself to sit next to me in the booth. 

“Qu'est-ce que vous écrivez?” he asked in French, while also elbowing my arm and forcing my hand to draw an unwanted line across the page. The moment I looked up to see the man, my irritation and interest began. He had strikingly black hair that swooped to the right, thus exposing his incredible facial structure on the left. His eyes were decorated with dark shadows and hints of red that matched his cherry lips; moreover, the hues accentuated his warm skin tone. 

The man’s eyes scanned over my scribbles. I slowly realized how peculiar my notes must look to him. I quickly closed the book and clicked my pen. It was already too late. He then asked in my native language, “Ah, so you’re an English speaker?” 

I nodded and looked him in the eye finally. He was uncomfortably close; we sat only inches apart. The already steamy club grew hotter as our bodies exchanged heat. The man asked again, “Why were you writing those things?” 

The man’s curious nature did not appear to be fading in the slightest. I gave in and said, “I’m a writer. Or more like someone who writes. I like people watching because it helps me make more realistic characters and scenes.” 

He grinned in an almost gentle way as if he was reminded of something. “Do you want to write about me?” I wasn’t sure how to respond. At that moment, I kind of did have an urge to write about him. Just like how artists draw beautiful things and photographers take pictures of beautiful things, I wanted to write about him. I wanted to capture his essence the only way I can. Telling someone you just met two seconds ago you want to do that, is a bit harder. 

“I’m kidding. You don’t actually have to write me like one of your French boys,” he said, giggling at his own joke. Internally, I sighed with relief and hoped he couldn’t read my mind. “My name is Baekhyun by the way.” 

“I’m Chanyeol.” 

“Chanyeol,” he repeated.

I shifted away from him slightly - it felt as though I was sitting next to a celebrity, someone intriguing but also extremely intimidating. Getting further from him was the only way I could keep control of my nerves. 

Those dark eyes continued to study me. 

He asked, “So, Chanyeol, where are you from?” Despite being clearly fluent in English, his velvety voice was laced with a faint, but oddly attractive, accent.

“America,” I answered rather bluntly. 

“Ah, of course,” he replied, sounding unsurprised. “My friend studied there, and you sound just like him. Why are you here? In Paris, I mean.” 

“I’m working on my debut novel, and I needed inspiration. I figured the city of romance and beauty would be a good place to start.” 

Baekhyun smiled. His smile was warm and comforting, the kind that would make you want to rest your head on his shoulder and tell him your hidden secrets. “A romantic, I see. Are you going to write about two people kissing on the Eiffel Tower too?” 

I laughed at that; my old YA romance tropes from high school flooded back into memory. “Not exactly. I was thinking more a person moving to another country to pursue their dream of music because the character’s family back home doesn’t approve.” 

“Is that your situation?” he asked. 

“Similar.”

“They don’t support your writing?” 

“No, they don’t. Apparently, you can’t make any money with an English degree. My parents never thought I could write well enough.” We both went silent for a moment. No one goes to a club to talk about their hidden issues; they go, instead, to forget them. Nevertheless, it’s so easy to tell strangers everything, especially the drunk ones. In the morning, most of them won’t even be able to pick you out in a crowd. 

Baekhyun was different. In the time we spent together, I learned he picked up on every small cue from people. He would remember and analyze the words coming out of my mouth then. Whereas others would be intimidated by his observations, it drew me in. The words spilled off my tongue into the air, and he collected every syllable and tone. 

Finally, the silence broke with Baekhyun saying, “Chanyeol, you’re an intriguing man, but you don’t belong here. I know this isn’t exactly the environment for this topic, but something tells me to prod. Could I have your number? Maybe we can talk another time.” 

This oddly formal question clashed with the subject, and I ended up laughing. He unintentionally laughed at himself as well but tried hard to maintain his illusion of pleading. And because it was Baekhyun, and because he was fascinating, I gave it to him. It nearly felt like a therapist offering his business card to a potential client. Now, I see this idea possibly could have been where I misjudged him. 

Later that night, after we had parted ways, Baekhyun texted me. I cannot remember what the text message contained, but I do remember that our conversations carried on and on with no real end. One topic would lead to another, so they would never die. 

We met up weeks later at a picnic in a local arboretum for our first date. Snacking on strawberries and peaches, we talked for hours again. Baekhyun convinced me to explore the beauty of the garden and all the flowers it contained. He rambled on for hours about the plants and somehow connected them to a larger world view. 

Later, Baekhyun listened to my concerns and empathized with them. That was one thing I deeply admired about him. He was empathetic. Baekhyun felt other’s emotions as his own. You could tell him how you felt, and he would truly understand where you are coming from. Among the flowers, we re-lived our past experiences together in the stories we told. 

Our dates continued like the first, going out to eat and talk. A very typical relationship, right? We moved onto visiting each other’s apartments for movie nights or just to be together. I wish I could have told you something more interesting, dear reader, but the details at this point are trivial and so by-the-book. I would not want to bore you with my endless rambling of events. 

What you may be interested in, is my heart. I adored that man’s mannerisms, ideas, eyes, and his thoughts. The vivid memories I still hold seem to mainly be of Baekhyun’s mind. His mind was a body of water, he swam down to the nadir of the pool and remained there for hours. He knew what he was feeling, and why he was feeling it. Sitting in his mind was comfortable for him. Baekhyun’s introspective ability provoked the conversations that will likely stay with me forever. 

One day he asked me, “Do you think how we determine our worth says something about our morals?” 

“What?” I mumbled, lifting my head off his sofa to see him. 

“You know how we measure our own sense of self-worth? Does that reflect how we determine what’s good and evil? Are those interconnected?” 

“Probably. I don’t know,” I sighed. It was late at night, and I was growing tired. My head was foggy and not in the right mindset to think. 

Unfazed by my lackluster reply, he said, “I think they are. People who think low of themselves tend to have a long list of things they think are wrong. Cocky people don’t usually understand that they can do wrong because they don’t think as many things are evil. Not that everything is necessarily evil, maybe just wrong.” 

I hummed in reply to his rambling, not thinking much of it at the time. Later, when my heart was crying out, I thought about this more. I should have noticed. I should have said something better. Unfortunately, I never did.

Weeks passed, and everything was normal. I was working on my novel, finally deciding to write about a lost musician in Paris. Baekhyun would lay his head on my shoulder and watch me type for hours. When he noticed I was stressed, he would read out random pieces of dialogue in a nasal voice to cheer me up. 

He went to classes at a local university and studied for hours every day. He worked at a book shop nearby his apartment. Oftentimes, I would sit in the bookstore’s café and write, approaching the cash register to bug Baekhyun when the crowd slowed. 

We snuck behind bookshelves and would look at stories together. I would joke that he had terrible taste (which was a bit true), and he would scoff, look away, and pout. Then, as per routine, I would spin him towards me and lightly kiss his nose. He would giggle sweetly; back then it was my favorite melody, prettier than any vocalist or instrument could ever be. 

Baekhyun was childlike and mature at the same time. On open mic nights at a suspiciously dark restaurant, he would force me there to watch him sing. His singing voice was soothing, yet powerful. Baekhyun knew he could sing, and he used his voice to tell stories. He could perfectly pick up on emotions and make the listener truly feel the song. The child in him disappeared and was replaced with a wise old man, one who had been really happy and really hurt many times throughout his life. 

He worked two jobs, while I concentrated on writing. I wrote a few freelance works to help pay my bills. Chapters upon chapters of my novel seemed to flow out of my hands onto my computer screen. It was as if everything I had been stalling for months rushed into my story at once, and soon enough, I was moving through the book with ease.

We occasionally, or perhaps often, stayed over at each other’s places and stayed up late talking. After long workdays, both of us needed a break. Together, we found comfort in each other. It was normal. We were normal. 

But, conformity suffocated Baekhyun. It bothered him like a scratchy turtleneck sweater scraping at his skin. All he wanted was to tear himself out of the box of normalcy, into a state of despair and decay. Unfortunately, that meant he had to drag me down with him. 

It started with a question. On an average day, sunny, if I remember correctly. I walked into his apartment as we were planning to go out to eat. By this point, I had a set of keys to his place. When he did not answer after I knocked a few times, I used it to get in. The main living space was empty, and something was off. 

The usual scattered notebooks and papers piled on the countertops were now stacked neatly. Pillows were strategically placed and puffed on the furniture. Not even a dirty dish resided in the sink. 

Early on in our relationship, Baekhyun cleaned before I would come over, but never to this extent. Picking up things off the floor and piling them in another room meant cleaning for him. Besides, he had eventually stopped caring after I’d come over a few times. Normally, he left everything out, as if giving me a peek into his day. 

I shook off the eerie feeling and moved on to search the bedroom.

Sure enough, he was there. Baekhyun sat on the floor in front of his closet. Clothes were piled on the ground around him. He was hunched over with his thighs holding up his elbows. His hands covered his ears as if he was trying to block out any noise. 

“Baek, are you okay?” I crouched down next to him, but his arms limited my view of his face.  
He remained silent, still, and stiff. I reached out towards his shoulder, but he flinched and turned away. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He dropped his hands to his sides and pushed himself to face me. Baekhyun drew in a deep breath before saying, “I was getting dressed, and I just started thinking. My head started going all over the place, and I don’t know.” 

I scooted closer and grabbed his hand out of his lap. “What were you thinking about?” 

“Nothing,” he sighed. “It was nothing.” 

“Well it clearly was something or else you wouldn’t be acting like this.” 

“It’s just... I don’t know.” He wouldn’t look me in the eyes, staring at the carpet blankly. 

“Baekhyun, tell me what’s going on. I want to help you.” 

He quickly forced himself up off the ground. Now standing, he looked down at me and smiled. “I’m fine. See? I was just in my head too much, but I’m good now.” 

It wasn’t right. The sudden change in his body, expression, and form was disturbing. It was as if some entity had swallowed up his emotions and replaced them with a fake persona. This wasn’t Baekhyun. 

I got up with him and tried to examine him more. He continued to smile at me. “I’m fine. Can you see now?” he asked. 

He grabbed my hand and pulled me out into the kitchen. “Would you like coffee? I’m going to make some for myself, so it won’t be out of my way.” 

“Baek-” I started. 

“Chanyeol, I’m fine,” he groaned, dragging out the ending. “You know, you sometimes end up in a small midlife crisis in your twenties, but it’s normal. I just was thinking too much, and it was hard to come out of my head. That’s all.” 

Baekhyun brewed the coffee. Neither of us said a word after that. We listened to the coffee pot, but I don’t think we were really focused on the machine. 

The timer rang out, and I instinctively flinched at the sudden noise. He took out two mugs and poured the coffee into them. Baekhyun poured generous amounts of milk and sugar into his; he was never able to stand the strong espresso alone. After handing me a cup, he walked over to the couch and sat.

“I don’t really feel like going out if that’s okay with you.” 

I nodded, unsure of what else to say. I was walking on eggshells. Around Baekhyun, I felt like I was edging around the subject but could never quite reach a conclusive answer. It was not just this time though. Many times before, I had felt a distance between us. I never quite knew the correct approach, so frankly, I ignored it. This time was different. I wanted to know more than ever. 

Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was fed up. Maybe I had good intentions. I don’t know, but I know I said, “Can you stop with this? I know something is up. Look, I’m not going to judge you. You’re my boyfriend, Baekhyun. I just want to help you.” 

The smile in his eyes faltered, but his grin did not. “I don’t know why you’re so hung up on that.” 

“Because you always do this,” I huffed. “I’m getting sick of you hiding everything from me. I feel like I tell you everything, but I know nothing about you.” 

“What do you mean? What do you want to know?” He stopped smiling, but he instead feigned cluelessness. 

“I want to know how you’re doing! Is that too much to ask for? Why are you upset? Can I help? Do you need anything? These sort of things.” 

Baekhyun turned his head to fully see me. “I don’t need help. I’m okay, I swear.” 

With every lie, I grew more and more frustrated. Some part of me said I should just let it go, but I never listen to myself.

Out of anger, I yelled, “Just tell me what’s fucking going on. I’m tired of this ‘I’m fine’ and ‘I’m okay’ when you’re obviously hurt. I don’t understand why you can’t just open up to me.” 

And then, he snapped too. “Why do I have to tell you if I don’t want to? Do I have to tell you everything I think?” 

“The problem is, you don’t tell me anything,” I sighed. 

“Oh, so you want to hear things like ‘I’m feeling a bit sad today’ or ‘I feel so great right now and I could do anything’ or even ‘I have the urge to down a bottle of pills.’ Is that what you want?” he exclaimed mockingly. 

It was the first and only instance where he mentioned his suicidal tendencies. My instincts told me to stop and hold him, but I froze instead. “Woah, Baekhyun,” I stammered. 

“It’s what you wanted, right? For me to tell you everything and anything.” 

“Baek, but that’s-” I started, but the words wouldn’t form. 

“It’s hard. You don’t want to deal with it, so I don’t tell you,” he said, his eyebrows raising as he looked me in the eyes. 

I was taken aback for a second. “No. I want to deal with it. I want to help you. Why would you think that?” 

“Because you don’t know how to. So, you don’t try, and you won’t try.” 

I scoffed. “Of course, I would try. I care about you.” The combination of anger and love was tearing at me. I wanted to scream at him, but I also wanted him to be alright. However, the negatives always seem to outweigh the positives.

“Do you? Do you even know anything about me?” 

“No! That’s why I’m trying to talk to you right now!” I yelled. 

He suddenly became small, curling himself up by pulling his legs to his chest. “I don’t need your care. I don’t deserve it.” 

“Dammit, Baekhyun,” I said. “Why do you fucking think th-” In the midst of my frustration, I had lost control. People often say I talk with my hands, and most of the time it’s harmless. This time, my anger was displaced into them. My hand slammed down into the glass coffee table in front of us, shattering it and spilling the steaming coffee onto my hand. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I apologized, frantically trying to move shards of glass away and do anything to undo what I had just done. The drink stung and burned my skin. In the moment, I felt nothing but guilt. 

Baekhyun was silent, staring with wide eyes at the mess and me. 

“Are you okay?” I asked while examining him for any marks. He had no visible scratches; his position protecting him. Despite this, he was shaken and refused to make eye contact. 

“Get out,” he whispered, looking at his knees. 

“What? Please, I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up. I didn’t mean to. I was just upset, and it was an accident,” I pleaded. I had never meant to hurt Baekhyun. My frustration had come out wrong, causing even more of a mess. I wanted him to know I cared, but I probably looked crazy. 

He spoke louder, but did not move, “Get out.” 

“Please, let me clean this. I’m sorry. I was frustrated because you think so little of yourself, and I don’t want that for you. You deserve more. I’m sorry.” 

Still unfazed by my words, he looked up at me and said, “Get out.” 

Pain swam in his eyes. The precious eyes that watched over me and told me stories of comfort. He was hurt, and I had hurt him. Not physically, but I had still hurt him. My heart sank to my stomach. I didn’t want to make him feel worse, so I left.

I got up, tiptoed around the glass over to the door. I glanced back at Baekhyun, who was inspecting the glass again. “I’m so sorry,” I said. Then, I walked out. And, that was it. As soon as the door closed, the tears flooded down my face. I sobbed on my way home and fell against my apartment door and cried more. 

I should have contacted Baekhyun in the weeks following the fight. Looking back now, that may be one of my biggest regrets, but I’ve always been afraid of confrontation. After breaking the table, I felt even more guilty. If I hadn’t, maybe we could have fixed things. 

However, I started to question if I was a bad person more than ever. I knew I never meant to hurt him. But I could not figure out why I had to break something. Why did I have to ruin everything good for me? Am I the same as the cruel people who hurt their partners? 

Now, every day I sit in the café and ponder these questions. I write of my mistakes and stir black iced coffee, despite the chill of winter, with my healed hand in order to not scald it again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!  
> also a big thank you to abbie and lily ([@splatrification](https://twitter.com/splatrification)) for reading my drafts, giving me amazing advice, and supporting me when i needed it! you two are the best and i'm so grateful for you! ♡♡  
> i know this is short, but for now i'm posting it while i work on something better and much longer. please leave any feedback or advice for me in the comments!


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